Memories won't hurt you
by SUPRNTRAL LVR
Summary: Sam and Dean investigate a photo album which appears to kill its owner... but when things get ugly, will Sam become its next victim? pre-season 3 finalie- my first fic so please review! Disclaimer: none of it is mine, I just love it!
1. Chapter 1

Sam tilted his head back and let the wind rush into his face through the open window of the impala. He let his eyes slide closed, letting out a soft sigh. It was at times like these that he could pretend that there was no deal, that Dean's life wasn't limited to a year, that he was just normal… his eyes opened and he slid them over to glance at Dean, who was tapping one finger on the steering wheel in time to his music. Dean acted like he couldn't care less about the deal that had sold his soul, but every so often his mask slipped and Sam would catch a glimpse of the terrified man beneath it. He only wished that Dean didn't feel that he had to put on a show, that he could be honest with Sam.

"Dude, I know I'm handsome but would you quit staring at me?"  
Sam looked away quickly, as if Dean could read his thoughts just by looking at him. Normally, Sam would react with some kind of joke or sarcastic comeback. But now he just couldn't make the words come.

"Lighten up, Sammy, you look like you're on your way to a funeral," Dean said. "Well, technically you are but if you get all damp eyed over every poor bastared that wanders into a haunting you'll be blubbing all your life."

Sam shook his head, shrugging off Dean's words. He practically felt Dean raise his eyes to the heavens and shake his head.

"Fine, whatever. What's the deal with this one again?"

Sam looked down at the papers that were resting in his lap: missing persons ads he had found on the internet. "John Saunders and Rosie Holler, both reported missing last week. The week before that there was a Ross Elliot and before that Josie Ferdinand. It all started the beginning of this month, same night every time."

"So what're we looking at? Vengeful spirit?"

"Maybe," Sam murmured, his brow furrowing. "So far I haven't found any connection between the victims."

"Ah well, you're finally getting rusty in your old age," Dean teased, grinning. "So we'll go interview the families, get a rough idea of who they were. Whether they had any dirty little secrets."

Sam nodded and sifted through the sheets of paper before him. "Uh huh. Closest one's Jane Saunders, John's wife. Keep going straight on until we hit the roundabout in the middle of town…"

His voice trailed off as a loud whining sound rose up from the back seat. Sam and Dean glanced at each other, eyebrows raised. Sam twisted around in his seat and leaned over to paw through their bags. His hand closed on something that was vibrating madly, and he sat back down with it in his fist. He held it out so that Dean could see it too. The EVP. It was going mad. Dean slowed down and let the car roll to a halt on the curb, and the two brothers watched as the EVP flickered and whined loudly.

"Hey."

Sam looked up at Dean's voice and then followed his gaze. They were parked outside a second hand shop, its windows packed with bric-a-brac and tiny china tea sets. A woman was just walking into it, a large brown package clenched in her hand. As soon as she vanished into the shop, the EVP went dead. Sam looked at Dean. Then the brothers slipped out of the car as one and moved into the shop, the EVP concealed beneath Sam's jacket.

Inside the shop was cramped and dark. A teenage girl stood behind the counter, talking to the woman in a hushed voice. Sam inched closer, and the EVP went wild again. The women looked up, frowning, and Sam turned away quickly. He fixed his gaze on a candle stand, running his fingers over its wiry frame, and the women began to speak again.

"I just can't have it in my house any longer," the woman whispered to the shopkeeper. "It scares me. All those people… I don't know why John bought it. He kept looking at it, he was looking at it the night before he disappeared…"

"Please, Mrs. Saunders," the shopkeeper replied quietly. "You're talking about it as if it's _alive…_"

"Well, maybe I feel like it is," the woman snapped. "Just take it. I don't want my money. Just take it away."

"Mrs. Saunders–"

"Take it!"

The last words were so loud that Sam couldn't help but look up. The woman, Mrs. Saunders, was pressing the book into the shopkeeper's hands, her eyes wide with fear and hatred. The teenage girl was forced to take it, and Mrs. Saunders ripped her hands away as if the package were red hot. Without waiting for the shopkeeper to speak, she turned and strode quickly from the shop. Sam met Dean's gaze and Dean gave the slightest of nods. Then he turned and moved out of the shop after the woman.

Sam turned towards the girl, who was pressing her lips together hard. He turned on a smile and stepped forwards.

"Everything okay?"

She looked up, startled, as if she hadn't realized that he was there. "Yes, yes. Everything's fine."

"I couldn't help but overhear. Is that woman alright?"

"Oh yes. She's just lost her husband recently," the girl replied, turning to place the package beneath the counter. "She's overreacting."  
"Of course. Just out of interest, what was it she wanted to give back?"

The teenager hesitated, just a second too long. Then, slowly, she retrieved the package and set it down on the counter. "Have a look, if you want. I've not been able to sell it to anyone for more than a week or so. It's like it's… cursed."

Sam waited for her to move away to tend to another part of her shop before laying his hand on the top of the package. Instantly, a cold, clammy feeling rushed into his fingers. He shivered, but didn't remove his hand. Instead, he pulled out the EVP with his free hand and held it close to the package. It went made, flashing and whining so loudly that the young girl on the other side of the room looked up. Sam shoved it back into his pocket, nodding to her, and reached down to open the package.

Abruptly, a second hand slammed down on top of the package. Sam jerked back, one hand automatically reaching down to his waistband where his gun was hidden. The cold, dark eyes of an elderly woman stared back at him, her gnarled hand clenching over the package.

"Stay back," she snarled, her voice cracked with age. "Do not open it! Never open it!"  
"Grandma!"

The teenage girl ran over, grabbing her grandmother's arm. She shot an apologetic look at Sam as she struggled with the older woman, but her grandmother's hands only curled more tightly over the package.

"You do not understand!" she hissed furiously. "It must never be opened!"

"Grandma, please! We've got customers!"

"It must never be opened!" the elderly woman repeated, shaking her head.

Sam looked down at the package. It was obvious that he wouldn't be able to get it away from her without a fight, and there was no way he was about to hit an old lady. His only hope was that the girl would be able to get the package free and give it back to him. But, even as the thought lit up in his mind, the girl gave up and looked over at him again.

"I'm so sorry. She's very superstitious," she said as her grandmother clutched the package to her chest.

"Couldn't I just–"

"No one must open it!" the woman snapped, her voice rising. "No one!"

"I think you'd better leave," the teenager said, biting her lip. "I'm sorry."

Sam opened his mouth, and then thought better of it. Instead of arguing, he stared down at the package. It was then that he noticed that a corner of whatever was inside had poked out of the brown paper wrapping, a small bronze rectangle clearly framing the words; Henry Hartford. Sam stared at the name, locking it into his memory. Then he smiled at the teenage girl and nodded.

"Sure. Maybe I'll come back later."

Then he turned and left the shop without a second look back.

Dean was leaning against the impala, his arms folded. He jerked his head to the right as Sam reached him, indicating the retreating back of the woman who had returned the package.

"Mrs. Jane Saunders. She's John Saunders' wife. Wouldn't tell me much just that she wanted whatever that thing was out of her house. Thought it was cursed."

"Yeah, she's not the only one," Sam said. "There was this old woman in there who wouldn't even let me touch the thing."

"So we don't know what it is?"

"Not yet. Henry Hartford."

Dean frowned. "Who's that, your new boyfriend?"

"Was on the package. C'mon," Sam said, moving around the car to get into the passenger seat. "I need my laptop."

"What you need," Dean replied mischievously. "Is a sex life."


	2. Chapter 2

"Right here."

Dean jerked awake, the magazine slipping from his face. He sat up, rubbing the back of his head blearily. He had been lounging across his bed, sniggering at the magazine while Sam tapped away on his laptop. He must have fallen asleep… stretching, he pulled himself forwards and off the bed, habit forcing him to look quickly around the room before moving to stand behind Sam.

"Right where?"

Sam nodded at the screen of his laptop. "I found him," he replied, scrolling up to a picture of a man in his early sixties.

The man's hair was greying, and age had formed wrinkles over his worn face. His cold, wary eyes stared out from the picture as if he could see Dean. Dean suppressed a shiver and shifted his eyes to the caption beneath the picture.

'"Harold Hartford,"' he read aloud. '"Nineteen twenty one to nineteen eighty four.' So?"

"So, this Harry is the original owner of whatever that package was."

"So he could be the one cursing the object," Dean finished, catching on. "Okay. Where's he buried?"

Sam hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the answer he was about to give. "It doesn't say, and I can't find any record of him."

"So… you don't know?"

"Of course!" Sam objected, his face reddening. "It'll just take me a bit longer, that's all. But we might not even need–"

"Cool, something Geek-boy doesn't know," Dean teased, his face breaking into a huge grin. "Why don't you let the experts take a look, huh?"

He picked up the laptop and sauntered back to his bed with it, ripping out its battery wire as he did so. Sam scowled but followed him, standing before him as Dean began to look through what Sam had pulled up.

"Harold Hartford… family of three: wife, two kids…" he frowned as a personal record flashed up on the screen. "Huh…"

"I know," Sam said. "His kid, Jason, had Arsonphobia."

"Translation? Fear of being kicked up the arse?"

Sam grinned. "Fear of _fire._"

"Huh." Dean paused. Then, "Is this right? Jason burned to death? How did that happen?"

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, the way he always did when he was thinking hard. "It's all there. Apparently his daddy wasn't happy with the phobia, and decided to get the kid used to it…"

He paused, but Dean hadn't found the file that explained the rest and so just looked up, waiting for Sam to continue. Sam rolled his eyes.

"He took Jason out to their back garden and lit up a huge bonfire, probably thinking that once he got Jason used to the flames there would be no problem. No such luck: Jason fainted and fell straight into the flames. Apparently Hartford didn't get him out in time."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Woah. Bright idea, huh?"

"Yeah. So, horrified at what he had done, Hartford decided to follow along. He went back into the house, called an ambulance – in case Jason was still alive, I guess – and slit his own throat. His wife found him a few hours later."

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Great. Where does the album come into this?"

Sam sat down beside him and took the laptop, clicking on different documents to bring up photos. In the backgrounds, ghostly figures hovered.

"Aw, come on, Sammy…"

"Legends of ghosts becoming trapped in photographs have been around for ages, Dean," Sam replied firmly. "Some people believed that photographs could trap your soul, keep you trapped forever."

"And you think that that's what happened to Hartford?"

Sam brought up another file, this time from a police station. It was a photograph of Hartford's corpse as it had been found, slumped over a kitchen table. Beneath him, Dean could see a large, thick book, the pages of which had been stained brown by Hartford's blood.

"What's with the book?"

Sam clicked on another photo, a close up of the front of the book. "I recognize it. I've seen that nameplate before – on the thing that was in the package."

"Hartford's haunting his family photo album?" Dean asked. "Jeez, could have chosen something cooler…"

"Dean, head in the game," Sam reminded him. "If I'm right, then we don't need to burn his bones. We can just burn the album: no cursed object, no curse."

Dean nodded. "Great, we can just walk in there and take it. No trouble at all."

"Exactly," Sam said, sitting back and closing his laptop. "Told you we wouldn't need the grave," he added.

"Whatever," Dean muttered, standing up. "Let's just go buy the book, get this over with. Maybe we could visit Bobby after this job…"

Sam shrugged. "Sure. Haven't seen him for a while. And he might have found out something more about the…"

The word _deal _hovered in the air between them, unspoken. Dean shrugged it off quickly, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door. Sam sighed and followed him.

"One more thing I don't get," Dean said as they moved through the door. "The victims are _missing, _not reported dead. Where's Hartford taking them?"

Sam just shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe he just hid the bodies in their garden or something, like his son."

"Maybe," Dean muttered.

He still felt as if they were missing something, but he tried to push the feeling away. If Sam was convinced, then Dean was too. He trusted Sam.

When they stepped into the shop, there was no one behind the till. Dean walked up to it and tapped the bell impatiently while Sam scoured the shelves, searching for any sign of the photo album. His efforts proved fruitless: it was nowhere on the shelves. Giving up, he returned to Dean's side and waited with his brother at the till. Dean rang the bell again.

"Oi! Hello?" he called, his voice echoing through the small shop. "Anyone home?"

There was no answer. Dean felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and his hand automatically moved down to his gun.

"Hello?" he shouted again, his voice slightly more wary.

Sam, noticing the change, glanced at him. "What's up?"

"I dunno. Something feels wrong…"

Dean hesitated, and then strode around behind the till and ducked through the door leading to the back room of the shop. He heard Sam hiss his name, but he ignored him. Sam's footsteps followed him, slow but steady.

The back room of the shop was simple and small. Clearly, the family didn't live here. However, an armchair and a small tv were set up against the far wall among the piles boxes and brick-a-brack, the screen still crackling with life. Still, despite the vast amount of junk in the room, it was clear that there was no one around.

"Where are they?" Sam asked from behind him, and Dean turned to look at him. He shrugged.

"Dunno. Maybe they went out."

"They would have locked up out there."

Dean went to the back door near the other end of the room and tried it. It opened easily. As he turned, he caught sight of a crowded table in the centre of the room, a glint of metal resting on top of the piles of books on it. He strode over to the table, quickly recognizing the metal to be a set of keys. He held them up to show Sam.

"You'd think they'd have taken these with them, right?"

Sam walked over to the table, his brown furrowed. Then his face cleared and he picked up the book lying open on the top of the pile. It was huge and leather-bound, a bronze nameplate on the front. Dean's mind quickly matched it with the photograph they had seen earlier. He kicked himself for not noticing it before Sam, and then nodded at the book.

"That it?"

Sam nodded. He leafed through the book, frowning. "It was open…"

Dean's mind had already acknowledged that fact, and he already knew what it meant. The shop's owners wouldn't be coming back anytime soon. He sighed and headed for the back door.

"C'mon, Sam. At least now we don't have to pay for it."

Sam sighed heavily and followed him, tucking the book under his arm.

"She was just a teenager," he muttered.

Dean didn't have to be a mind reader to know what he was talking about. He winced internally and held the door open for Sam, pity rising up in him.

"Forget it, Sam. The sooner we burn this sonuvabitch, the better."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I guess."

**Ok, I know not much happened in this chapter but don't worry: it all comes out in the next one. Please review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: none of it is mine, I just love it!**

Sam watched as Dean rooted around in their bags for his lighter. The dim light in their motel room probably didn't help, but he knew better than to point that out. His brother was muttering incoherently to himself, clearly furious that he had lost it. When he found it – or bought some matches, as it was looking like that was going to end up being their only option – they would burn the album and this would all be over. For the young girl as well as them.

Sam sighed quietly, his fingers unconsciously rubbing small circles over the front of the book. It felt so _wrong, _not knowing what had happened to her. Whether she was even alive. This wasn't doing their job – this was running away from it. Like he had been running away from so many things lately… Sam allowed his weary eyes to droop closed. How long had it been since he had last slept properly? He had spent the past few nights on his laptop, or on his mobile to Bobby, or searching his dad's journal for what felt like the millionth time for some kind of loophole. Something they had missed. Something that would save Dean's life.

_And mine._

Sam swallowed hard as the words entered his mind. It was so selfish to be thinking of himself now, when Dean was just months away from dying. But still, the raw fact shone brightly in his head. How long before he gave up trying to bring Dean back? How long before he fell into that mindless, dead routine the Trickster had shown him? How long before he gave up living all together? When Dean died, Sam would die too. There was no doubt about that.

"Sam?"

Sam jumped, startled, and looked up. Dean was on his knees, twisted around to stare at his brother. One eyebrow arched upwards accusingly.

"What are you doing?" he asked warily.

Sam frowned, confused. Dean nodded to his lap, and Sam looked down. The photo album lay open across his knees, and his fingers were caressing a photograph of a house with Hartford's family grouped before it. Sam whipped his hand away as if the book were red hot, restraining himself from leaping to his feet. He couldn't even remember opening the thing, let alone leafing halfway through it. He tried to calm the panic rising up in him, furious with himself. Why was he reacting like this? It wasn't so horrifying: he had let his mind drift and lost track of what he was doing. That was all.

"Sammy?"

Dean's voice was edged with concern now, and he had turned to face Sam properly. Sam took a deep steadying breath and shook his head.

"Sorry, Dean. I guess I zoned out a little there."

"No kidding."

Dean watched him for a few more moments, as if waiting for Sam to suddenly start stroking the book again. Sam returned his gaze until he finally turned around, and then relaxed. He looked down at the photograph his hand was lying over; the one with the house and the family.

There they all were, Harry Hartford, his son Jason, his wife. What had her name been? Catherine? Sam felt his fingers twitch towards the photo and quickly withdrew his hand. Still, he kept his eyes on the picture. That cold, unsettling feeling was back again, telling him that he had missed something, that something was wrong… Sam bit his lip, a frown creasing his brow as he studied the photograph. It was black and white, but he could still catch almost every detail. The wide smile on Catherine's face, her brown curls hanging down and shining in the sun. The slightly more hesitant grin twisting Jason's features, his skinny body packed in tightly between his parents. Harry with his arm around them both, grinning hugely at the camera. The house rose up ominously behind them, huge and dark. The windows stared down like blank, empty eyes.

_What? _Sam thought. _What am I missing here?_

That was when he saw the face that did _not _belong. The pale, scared face peering out of the highest window of the house, dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, eyes wide and panicked. Sam gazed at her in shock.

"Dean?" he murmured.

"Wot?" Dean asked irritably from the other side of the room, his voice muffled by the way he was sticking his head into his bag.

"You should see this."

Dean, maybe sensing the change in Sam, rose to his feet and moved over to Sam's side. Sam rubbed a finger over the small face at the window.

"It's her," he whispered. "The shop girl."

There was a pause.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"God." Dean just stared down at the photo for a few moments. Then, "Well, this complicates things. D'you think it's really her, or just a… memory?"

"That's where the victims were going," Sam murmured, half to himself. "Harry was drawing them into the book and then trapping them there…"

"Sam, are you okay?"

Sam looked up, blinking. "Yeah, why?"

Dean frowned at him, his eyes searching Sam's face. "You look… sick. You feel ill or anything?"

"No. I feel fine. Just a little tired, that's all."

"You sure?"

Sam rolled his eyes. When Dean went all mother-hen on him, there wasn't much he could do but clench his teeth and wait it out until Dean found something else to do. _Typical big brother, _he thought. Almost at once, he felt sick. Was it typical big brotherly behaviour to sacrifice your soul? He tried to push the thought away, focusing on the thought at hand.

"Maybe we should call Bobby," he suggested, holding back a yawn as he put the open book down on the bed beside him. "He might have done something like this before at some point."

"Yeah, okay," Dean said, still not looking convinced. Sam was sure he was itching to feel Sam's forehead, check for a temperature.

"I'm _fine, _Dean. Seriously."

Dean just shook his head and rose to his feet, moving over to their bags again to retrieve his mobile.

"Well, I'll give Bobby a call now. Maybe we can get this over with and leave by Saturday."

Sam nodded, not really taking in what Dean was saying. He rubbed his face, trying to shove some energy back into his body. Jeez, it was only nine. Why was he so damn tired? He lifted his hands to his head and massaged his temples. Maybe he would turn in early… after Dean had talked to Bobby… or something… all at once, a sudden coldness seeped into Sam's chest, making him gasp with shock. His eyes flew open and he opened his mouth, panic rising sharply in him once more. He wanted to scream Dean's name, but no sound left his mouth. Then, abruptly, everything went white.

Dean listened to Bobby's mobile ringing, tapping one foot impatiently. He turned, opening his mouth to tell Sam that Bobby wasn't answering – and froze. Sam's eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open. He was trembling, making tiny gasping sounds as he struggled to breathe. The mobile dropped from Dean's hand as he lurched forwards, all thoughts of Bobby gone from his mind. He reached out a hand for Sam… and Sam vanished. Dean stopped dead, a statue, one hand still reaching for something that wasn't there. He gazed at the place where Sam had been just seconds before, shocked.

Then the panic started. Raw, blind panic. He dived forwards, snatching up the photo album. He began to flip desperately through the pages.

_No, no, no, please no… come on, you can't do this to me now…_

His trembling hands stilled as he stopped on a photo of Mrs. Hartford holding up a freshly baked cake in her clean, neat kitchen. He stared not at her, but at the room behind her. Because Sam was standing in the shadows behind the door, his eyes unfocused staring blindly to his left.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, his fingers scrabbling at the photograph. "Sammy! Hey!"

Nothing. He sat rigid, his eyes wide.

_Oh god, _he thought. _What the hell do I do now?_


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: none of it is mine, I just love it!**

**Thanks for the reviews!**

_Why is it so cold?_

That was the first thought that wove its way through the thick fog in his head. He could feel something hard and sharp pressing into the back of his head, a dull ache spreading out from the place as the pressure refused to give out. His eyes felt raw and dry, despite the fact they were glued shut, and his limbs were leaden. And it was cold. Really cold.

Sam winced and cracked his eyes open. He could see thick dust motes floating in the air above him, and a dry, grey ceiling. He blinked a few times, wondering if he was just imagining it all. Then, slowly, he pushed himself upright, lifting a hand and rubbing the back of his head. Turning, he could see that the thing that had been pressing into the back of his head was a small, jagged piece of plaster. He frowned at it for a few moments before turning his head to look around him.

"Dean?"

His voice sounded strangely small and alone in the emptiness. He narrowed his eyes, taking in the room in more detail.

It was, to say the least, a wreck. Everything was some shade of grey and covered in a thick layer of dust. The room was square, with a wooden floor and what-was-once-white painted walls. A sofa stood against one of the walls, stuffing leaking out from its cushions. Against another wall was a large bookcase. The wall behind him was taken up by a large window, curtains drawn, and the final wall had nothing but a closed door in it. A large, faded rug covered the floor. For a few moments, Sam wondered where the plank beneath his head had come from. Then he realized that there was a small hole in the ceiling, and that the plaster had clearly fallen from there.

Sam crawled to his feet, coughing as dust blew into his face. His eyes were still aching and he rubbed them in an effort to relieve the feeling.

"Dean?" he called again, this time knowing that he would not get an answer. He had no idea where he was, but he was sure that Dean wasn't near him. Still, he tried again.

"Dean?" Then, "Anyone? Hello?"

Nothing. Sam frowned, replaying his last few moments in the motel. He had been looking at the photo album, he'd found the shop girl, he'd closed the book… and then he couldn't breath and everything was white. And now this.

Sam turned in a full circle, studying the room around him. Was it even real? A vision of the Trickster flashed into his head, and he shivered. Was this his work? He took a long step forwards which brought him to the bookcase and touched the books on the middle shelf, wondering if his hand would pass through it. It practically did: the books crumbled beneath his fingers and fell to dust. Sam pulled back, blinking.

_Enough, _his brain screamed at him. _Get out. Find Dean._

He walked quickly over to the only door and pulled at the handle. The door rattled, but didn't open. Locked. He tried it again. Nope, still locked. Scowling, he let go and turned, deciding that he could try the window. And the room shook.

Sam stumbled back against the wall, taken by surprise. The room shuddered again, and then a thin crack appeared on the ceiling. Sam stared up at it, watching as it widened and then raced towards the opposite side of the room. The room shuddered again, and a small chunk of plaster dropped from the ceiling and hit the floor, dust trailing behind it like stardust. Then the reality of what was about to happen hit Sam head on. The ceiling was going to collapse.

Urgency leaping into him, Sam ran to the window and pushed the curtains aside. Outside, he could only see pitch black. He tried to open the window without success, and then drew back and kicked it hard. A spider-webbed-crack appeared in the glass, and then vanished almost instantly. Sam stared at the place where it had been.

"Oh, shit," he muttered.

He span around and sprinted back to the door as a second large chunk of plaster dropped from the ceiling, narrowly missing him. He threw himself at the door, ramming his shoulder in it. With a lurch of triumph, he heard the old lock groan. He attacked it again, painfully aware that plaster dust was raining down on his head from the crack. How long did he have? Ten seconds? Five? With a sudden scream of splintering wood, the door gave in and burst open and Sam made a dive for the other side just as the ceiling behind him collapsed in on itself.

"The number you are calling is not available. Please try again later. The number you are calling is–"

"No its not, damn it!" Dean yelled at his mobile. "Put me through to him right now!"

"…try again later. The number you–"

"Argh!" Dean threw his mobile down on his bed, where it continued to explain to his pillow that Sam couldn't answer him.

Dean strode over to Sam's bed, where the photo album was still lying there open. He stared at it, his eyes wild with panic and fury.

"What do you want me to do?" he snarled. "What do you want?"

Mrs. Hartford smiled sweetly back at him. Dean scowled furiously and turned his gaze on Sam, still lingering in the background of the photograph. His brother's face was so blank, so lost that it sent a shudder through Dean. It didn't look like Sam. It looked like a corpse dressed as Sam. Dean swallowed hard and then turned away, running his hands through his short hair.

He had to do something. It had been a full ten minutes since Sam had vanished, and all he had done so far was panic and phone a mobile which wasn't working. He had to help Sam somehow…

_Bobby._

The name pierced his mind like a dart. He lunged across the room for his mobile and snatched it up. He dialled Bobby's number and pressed the mobile to his ear.

_Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring…_

"Damn it, Bobby, pick up!" Dean hissed. "Son of a–"

"Hello?"

"Bitch!" Dean finished, his voice rising sharply with relief. "Finally!"

"I don't know if you've made a mistake callin' or somethin' but 'Bitch' is not my name," Bobby said in his gruff voice.

"Bobby, Sam's missing."

"What?" All annoyance in Bobby's voice vanished, replaced by concern. "How?"

"I dunno, I think he's been cursed."

Quickly, Dean relayed the events of the past few hours to Bobby who listened quietly. When he had finished, Bobby remained silent for a few moments.

"Well, this is some serious crap you boys have wandered into," he said at last. "You're dealing with the worst kind of vengeful spirit. See, for some of them it isn't enough to just kill people. They want to take their victims into their own world and terrify them first."

"Woah, woah, woah," Dean said, his eyes narrowing. "Back up. Sam's in Hartford's _world_? Well, how the hell do we get him out?"

Bobby didn't say anything. Dean went cold.

"Oh, no. No _way._"

"I'm sorry, Dean. I've only ever destroyed these things, I've never had to get anyone out. I mean, once they're in we just… have to give them up…"

"_No._" The word was short and cold, almost an order. Dean's eyes flashed as he stared at the photo album, his hands trembling. "No. We are _not _just gonna 'give him up.' You hear me? I'm not."

"I know." Bobby sighed. "Okay, don't do anything. I'll come down and see what I can do. Where are you?"

"Minnesota."

"I'll be there in a few hours."

Dean nodded. "Thanks, Bobby. But there's one more thing I don't understand. Why was it Sammy who got sucked in? As far as I know, that thing's only supposed to take its owner."

"Who took the book from the shop? Who picked it up?"

Dean thought. "Sammy."

"Well, as far as the spirit is concerned, that makes him its next owner."

Dean closed his eyes. _Damn it, Sam…_

"I'll be there soon, Dean. Bye."

"Bye, Bobby."

Dean sat down on his bed as he lowered his mobile. But he was far from comforted. What if Sam couldn't hold out for 'a few hours'? What if they were too late? Dean swallowed hard. Then he stood, crossed to his bag, and began to load his rifle full of rock salt. When Bobby arrived, he would be ready.

Sam picked himself up off the floor, wiping himself down. He took a moment to look behind himself at the ruined room, acknowledging that he could be buried beneath the rubble at this moment. Shuddering, he turned back to face the front. The room he was in now was some sort of kitchen, a large rectangular table in the centre and an old-fashioned cooker at one end. Small cabinets lined the walls, and there were three more doors and a staircase leading off from the room, a door for each wall (including the one behind him). Again, everything was in some sort of grey, and dust floated in the air.

At least now he had a pretty good idea of what was going on. The destruction that had just occurred was clearly the work of a violent spirit. Harry Hartford, probably.

_So I'm the new owner of the album. Great…_

But that still didn't explain where he was. Frowning, he took a few steps forwards. He recognized this room. Where had he seen it before? Sam ran his hand over the smooth wood of the table, leaving thin rivets in the dust. Was everything going to be dusty in this place? He brushed his hand on his jeans, grimacing. His eyes fell on one of the chairs at the table, and he froze. Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place in his mind. Sam walked to the base of the stairs and turned to face the room, lifting his hands to form a square in front of one eye.

The view he was looking at now matched one of the photographs in the album exactly, minus Mrs. Hartford and her cake. Sam lowered his hands, dread setting in. Somehow, he was in the Hartfords' old house.

"Great," he muttered. "Just great."

He ran his hand through his hair, dislodging some of the plaster dust there in the process.

And an ear piercing scream ripped through the air, erupting from somewhere above him like a volcano.

5


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: none of it is mine, I just love it!**

"Damn it, Bobby, hurry up!" Dean hissed under his breath, tapping his foot impatiently.

His fingers drummed on the barrel of his rifle, his only comfort. He was biting his lip so hard that it hurt, but he didn't care. If only Bobby had given him something – anything – to do while he waited. But he had nothing.

He rose to his feet and strode across the room, staring down at the photo album.

"Sam," he whispered. "Tell me how to get you out of there. Please."

Sam pounded up to the second floor of the house and hesitated, suddenly completely at a loss as to where the scream had come from.

"Hello?" he yelled. "Anyone?"

The scream came again, shrill and piercing. And still above him. Spinning around, Sam caught sight of a second staircase across the landing. He sprinted over to it and hauled himself up it, the wooden boards shaking beneath his feet.

The scream came again.

"I'm coming!" Sam yelled. "Just stay calm, I'm coming!"

"Hurry!" the voice howled. "Oh god, please! Stay _away _from me!"

The stairs led to a trapdoor in the ceiling. Sam grabbed the handle and tugged at it, but it held fast. Now that he was closer, he could hear running footsteps and thuds above his head. The person screamed once more.

"I'm almost there!" Sam shouted. "Just… just hold on, I'm coming…"

He rammed his elbow into the trapdoor and then stumbled down a step, gasping in pain. Another scream spurred him back into action and he hit the trapdoor again. It refused to move. Gritting his teeth, Sam placed his hands on the banisters and lifted himself upwards, striking out with both feet at the trapdoor. It burst open and Sam dropped back onto the stairs. He pushed his way upwards and scrambled into the darkness above.

Almost at once, a bundle of dark hair and screaming panic hurtled into him and hit him head on. Sam stumbled backwards, narrowly avoiding falling down the open trapdoor, automatically lifting his fists. The girl looked up at him, wide-eyed, and then ducked behind him. Sam looked up, finally seeing her attacker. All he saw was a pair of brown eyes, sparkling with fury and violence and a charred, blackened face. Then a huge gust of wind ripped through the attic room and the spirit was gone in a burst of flames. The smell of smoke and burning flesh lingered behind it, rushing into Sam's face as the wind died out.

For a few seconds, Sam stood still, waiting, hardly daring to breathe. Then, slowly, he took a step forwards into the middle of the tiny room. He turned, looking into every shadow before turning to address the girl who was pressing herself against the wall.

"I think it's gone."

She stared at him, her eyes wide. He could easily recognize her as the shop keeper, although she was wearing a large, baggy, denim jacket which he hadn't seen before.

"_What the hell was that?" _she hissed.

Sam shook his head. "A vengeful spirit," he said,

"Where the hell am I?"

"Honestly? I don't know." Sam took a step towards her. "You okay? Did it hurt you?"

She shook her head, inching away from him. "I know you," she whispered. "You were in the shop. With… with the book."

"Yeah."

She shook her head again, still shaking. Her eyes blazed with fear and confusion. "What the hell is this place?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry." He stepped towards her again, but she moved back once more.

"What? Are you scared of me?"

"No," she said quickly.

Sam smiled slightly and looked down at the floor. "You don't have to be scared of me. I'm going to help you, I swear."

Slowly, she eased herself away from the wall and took a hesitant step towards him. "How do I know you're not like… like _him?_"

"How do you know I am?"

She blinked, and then smiled hesitantly. "Okay, fine. So you're not ripping my head off."

"Nope. What's your name?"

"Katie."

"Well, Katie, I'm Sam."

"Great," she said, knocking her fists together. "That… gets us absolutely nowhere."

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. At least we're talking."

Katie swallowed hard, looking up at him with wide, imploring eyes. "Can you get us out of here?"

"I don't know." Sam looked away from her horrified expression and moved across the room. "How did you get here?"

"I don't know, I just woke up and… and I was here."

"And then he came?"

She nodded, biting her lip. "After a while."

Sam sighed and turned away. "Okay. Let's… let's just get downstairs. We should try and find salt…"

"_Salt?_"

He glanced at her. "Yeah, salt. Look, just put it down to a nightmare and go along with me, okay?"

She hesitated, but when he moved towards the trapdoor she followed him.

_She trusts me, _Sam thought. _That's something at least. Now we just have to kill the ghost and get outta here._

Bobby looked at his watch and swore softly. This was taking too long. He knew it was only a matter of time before Dean gave up waiting and did something rash. He pressed down on his accelerator, already way over the speed limit. _Just two more hours, _he thought. _Just wait for two more hours, Dean, and then I'll be right there._

No sooner had the thought raced through his mind than sirens began to wail somewhere behind him and blue-red light flashed over his car. Bobby swore loudly and slowed down, looking in his rear-view mirror at the police car that was closing in on him. Reluctantly, he slowed down and pulled over. Sam and Dean would have to wait a little longer.

"You seriously want me to look for salt?"

Sam looked up from the cupboard. "Please, Katie? Just look?"

Katie rolled her eyes but went down on her knees and began to sort through the cabinets on the other side of the kitchen. Sending a silent _Thank you _skywards, Sam bent his head to the cupboard again and carried on rooting through it.

At the same time, he was rooting through his mind. He had nothing with him, no mobile, no weapons, nothing. He didn't know where Harry Hartford was. He didn't even know where he himself was. He didn't know where Dean was. And he had no idea what to do. He rubbed his eyes, wincing as another wave of tiredness swept over him. Maybe it was something to do with the ghost or something… he shook himself, pushing himself back into the situation, and reached out towards the back of the cupboard.

His fingers were grey.

For a moment, Sam just stared at them in surprise. It was as if he were looking at them in a black and white photo… _Oh crap._

"Huh?"

Sam flinched and turned, unaware that he had spoken out loud. He balled his hand into a fist quickly, not wanting to scare Katie.

"Nothing. I just… haven't found any yet. Have you?"

Katie's eyes narrowed, and then travelled down to his clenched fists. Her face cleared.

"Oh. It's started with you too."

Sam stared at her. "What?"

She moved towards him, holding out her left hand. She rolled up her sleeve, revealing her skin beneath.

Sam stood up at once and strode over to her. He grabbed her hand harder than he had meant to and pulled her forwards a little, his brow furrowing in a frown of anxiety.

"What the…?"

Her whole arm up to her elbow was a light, flat grey. She looked up at him, biting her lip.

"I was thinking… that maybe when it's all over us we… you know… become part of this place."

Sam swallowed hard. Then he released her hand. "You'll be fine," he said, his voice surprisingly calm. "We'll both be fine. Okay?"

She nodded.

Sam nodded too, and then turned away. "Well, there was no salt in the–"

Something slammed into him full on and he flew backwards into the wall, his head snapping backwards as he impacted with it. He dropped to the floor and lay stunned, black dots dancing before his eyes. He could hear Katie calling his name from somewhere close by, and he could smell… fire. He started to sit up but his head swam and he grabbed at the wall for support. Abruptly, he was lifted into the air and thrown across the room again. Glass shattered around him and rained down on him as he hit the floor, and he buried his head in his arms to protect himself. He glanced upwards, squinting to see past the darkness clouding his vision.

The spirit stood before him, flames leaping from his figure in sharp tongues. His burning brown eyes glared down at Sam, merciless and unforgiving. His flesh was blackened and charred, the skin burned almost completely to nothing in places, and his clothes were torn and curling. He was small – if Sam was standing, the spirit would only come up to his stomach.

But one fact stood out above all the others, one which tore a hole in Sam's mind and flashed there in neon lights for a few moments, pushing away every other thought.

_He's not Harry Hartford._

That was the last clear thought in Sam's head. Then the spirit drove in on him and there was nothing but fire.

5


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: none of it is mine, I just love it!**

Dean looked at his watch, scowling. Then he continued pacing.

"Jeez, Bobby, how much time do you need?" he muttered. "It's been a whole hour…"

He strode back to the photo album and looked down at it, searching for Sam. His heart jerked when he realized that Sam's image was beginning to fade into nothing, his left hand almost invisible. Dean gritted his teeth in frustration and brought his fist down on the album.

"Damn it, let him out!" he yelled, louder than he'd intended. "Now! I don't care what kind of twisted mind you have, you're not getting him! Let him _out!_"

He pulled back and lifted his rifle. Before he could stop himself, he had buried three rounds of rock salt in the book's thick pages.

He stood still, breathing hard, the gun still aimed at the book. Then, panic suddenly ripping into him, he lurched forwards and grabbed the album. No, Sam was still there. So his outburst hadn't hurt him… Dean let out a small sigh of relief and dropped down onto the bed, still holding the album.

He would have to try and control himself a little better. If he hurt Sam somehow by recklessly attacking the photo album… he swallowed hard and closed his eyes.

_Nothing happened. He's okay._

He almost laughed at the absurdity of that thought. Of course Sam wasn't 'okay'! He was trapped inside some freakish ghost world. Dean kneaded his forehead with his knuckles.

_Hurry the fuck up, Bobby!_

He didn't notice the white light slowly creeping out from the photo album on the bed beside him. At least, not until freezing cold pierced his chest and cut off his breath. He bolted up to his feet, spinning around. The book was glowing eerily, curls of white light reaching out across the room for him. Dean took a fumbling step backwards, lifting the rifle. Was this what Sam had experienced? He fired, but the rock salt went straight through the light. If anything, the attack just made it angry. The light whipped forwards, curling around Dean's wrist and jerked forwards. Dean let out a yelp as he pitched head-first into the photo album, and everything went white.

**Sorry, I just had to add this little bit on before I started on the next chapter! I know its short, but think of it as an extra bit for the last chapter. More soon!**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**

1


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: none of it is mine, I just love it!**

Sam flew backwards through the air and hit the wall. The child spirit held him there, its face contorted in a snarl of hate. It let him go abruptly and he dropped to the floor, tasting blood in his mouth as he impacted with the ground. He heard Katie scream his name, and then abruptly fall silent.

"Katie!" he yelled, pushing himself up to his knees and opening his eyes. "Katie, are you–"

He broke off as the spirit lifted him and threw him again. His head snapped backwards and pain erupted in his back as he hit the wall. He blacked out for a few seconds, waking to find himself lying on his back amongst a scattered pile of broken wooden planks. He sucked in a gasp of air and rolled over onto his side, his whole body trembling as he struggled to support himself. With a jolt, he saw that the grey tinge that had covered his fingers had now spread up to his elbow. He looked up, breathing hard.

The spirit was standing in the middle of the room, its burned face turned up towards the ceiling. It was scowling, anger flickering in the depths of its eyes. A second glance told Sam that Katie was okay – she was kneeling beside the oven with one hand pressed against her cheek. Wincing, Sam pushed himself up into a sitting position and fixed his gaze on the spirit, which was still gazing up at the ceiling.

"Hey!" he shouted, grabbing the wall to pull himself up to his feet.

The spirit turned its cold, dead eyes on him and hissed quietly. It made a short, sweeping motion with its hand and flames leapt up in front of it. Sam stumbled backwards, letting out a yell of surprise and shock. The spirit smirked and narrowed its eyes, and the flames raced towards Sam. Sam threw himself clear just in time, and the flames leapt up the wall behind him. He skidded onto his knees, fighting to keep his balance, and spun to face the spirit which was turning to follow him.

"_Scared?" _it hissed.

Sam stared at it, his breaths coming in shuddering gasps. "Not… of you!" he managed, snarling the words through clenched teeth.

"_You will be."_

Sam pulled as much hatred as he could into his eyes and glared at the spirit. "Don't think so," he panted.

The spirit's smirk vanished as its face contorted with rage, and it lifted its hand again. The fire climbing the wall across the room wheeled and ripped towards Sam. Sam felt the intense heat, the roaring anger–

"Oi! Get your filthy hands off my brother, freak!"

Sam's head jerked upwards. "Dean?" he whispered.

The spirit turned, snarling. Behind it, Dean lifted his rifle, his eyes blazing almost as fiercely as the fire around him.

"You heard me!" he shouted. "Back off!"

The spirit took a step towards him. And Dean fired.

The spirit skidded backwards, letting out a harsh scream, and dissolved into nothing, the rock salt blowing it away in seconds. At the same time, the fire fell away and died out, its heat vanishing with it.

Dean lowered his rifle, letting out a long breath.

"That one was a real bitch."

Sam stared at him, his mouth hanging open. "How… how the hell did you get in here?"

Dean shook his head. "I guess it just got really angry and decided to give me a kick up the arse when I shot the book."

Sam closed his eyes. "God, Dean, you could have been hurt…"

"Aw, don't start with that," Dean whined, but he grinned as he walked over to Sam and held out his hand to help him up. "No chick flick moments, remember?"

Sam allowed a smile to spread over his face and he reached up to take Dean's hand. Dean froze, paling, and Sam blinked.

"What is it?"

"Sam… your hand…"

Sam looked down at his hand. He'd forgotten the greyness that was spreading over him. He pulled his collar forwards and looked down his shirt. It had spread to his chest now, creeping towards his throat, covering his clothes too. Sam swallowed hard.

"Sorry, I forgot about–"

Dean shook his head and reached down, gripping Sam's hand and pulling him up to his feet.

"It doesn't matter. What did it do to you?"

"I think it's just a result of being here, in this place," Sam replied. He wiped at his mouth, wincing as his lip throbbed, and his hand came away smeared with blood.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam muttered, dragging his hand across his mouth again. "I'll be fine, once we get out of this place."

Dean hesitated. "Yeah..."

Sam noticed the pause, but he settled for just giving Dean a raised-eyebrow-glance before turning towards Katie who was looking up at them, a bruise darkening on her cheek.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," she said, climbing to her feet. "Is he gone?"

"Harry? Yeah," Dean said.

"No. It's not Harry, it's too young," Sam interrupted, glancing at his brother. "It can't be him."

"But then… who is it?"

"I think…" Sam hesitated. "I think its Jason Hartford."

"The kid Harry burned? His son?"

"Yeah." Sam shivered. "Looks like he's finally got over his fear of fire, huh?"

Dean grimaced and turned away. "C'mon. Let's get out of here."

"How?" Sam asked, spreading his hands slightly as Dean moved towards the door. "When I tried to break one of the windows, the glass just fixed itself straight away. There's no way out."

"Yeah, well," Dean muttered, "I think it's about time that this spirit met Dean Winchester."

SWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDW

Katie watched as Sam and Dean discussed their situation, ignoring her for a moment. She bit her lip and looked away. She should tell them, she knew it. But what good would it do now anyway? She turned away, fixing her gaze on the floor. It wasn't important… right?

SWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDW

Dean rammed the handle of his rifle into the glass of the back door in the kitchen. There was a tinkling sound as the cracked window repaired itself, and Dean swore at it angrily. He hit the glass again for good measure and then turned away, looking over to where Sam was rooting through one of the cupboards, still keeping up his search for more salt. Katie was standing behind him, asking him questions in a hushed voice. Dean could just about hear them from where he was.

"… is your brother?" she was whispering.

"Yup. Dean."

"Whoa. And you, like, hunt supernatural stuff for a _living?_"

"Yup."

"Whoa," she murmured again. "Like Ghostbusters."

Dean rolled his eyes. _Ghostbusters! _He and Sam were nothing like those jumpsuit-clad punks.

He hit the window one last time, and then sauntered over to Sam's side.

"Any luck?"

"No. Pretty much everything in this place is dust."

Dean shook his head. "Well, then, we're screwed. Until Bobby gets here."

"Bobby's coming?" Sam visibly relaxed, the tension leaving him in seconds. "Thank god. At least he can still help."

"Yeah," Dean muttered. _"Once they're we just have to give them up…" _If Bobby could even find a way to help them, he still wasn't going to get to their motel for another hour at least. Until then, they were at Jason's mercy. Unless they could find some way to destroy him.

"What if we burned the whole place down or something?" he suggested, leaning back against the wall.

"We'd probably end up being burned up too: there's nowhere else to go," Sam replied. "I was hoping that we could somehow find the photo album here and burn that, but when I was looking upstairs I couldn't see it anywhere."

"You mean we're stuck here?" Katie asked, her eyes widening. "Forever? Or at least until that _thing _gets us…"

"Hey!" Dean fixed his gaze on her. "That 'thing' isn't getting anyone, alright? If he comes near us again I'll blow his head off."

_Even though I'm down to my last round of rock salt, _he added silently. If only he hadn't wasted so much shooting at the light and the book…

"Dean?"

"What?"

"I said, maybe we should look upstairs again."

Dean shook his head. "Nah, we're not gonna find anything new."

"So what do we do?" Katie asked.

Silence met her question. Finally, Sam looked up at her. "Well, Katie, I guess now we just wait. Hope that Bobby has something up his sleeve. Otherwise…" he let his voice trail off.

Dean turned away and went back to the back door, lifting his gun to hit it again. Was this how he was going to die? After everything that had happened, after he had _sold his soul, _he was going to die at the hands of some spirit? Trapped in a ghost world? He clenched his jaw and hit the glass of the door again, putting all of his strength into the blow.

This time, he hit it so hard that he broke a hole in the glass. He pulled the gun free, his heart leaping, ready to attack again – and blinding white light flooded through the jagged hole. Dean felt the gun slip from his fingers as he lifted his hand to protect his eyes, heard Katie scream in shock, heard Sam yell his name. A huge gust of wind blew into his face, bringing with it a smell of decay and fire. Somewhere behind him, he heard Sam let out a shout of pain.

"SAM!" he yelled.

Then darkness closed over him and everything vanished.

4


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: none of it is mine, I just love it!**

**Please review!**

_Sssssssssssssssssccchhhhaaaaa…_

_Sssssssssssssssssccchhhhaaaaa…_

Sam's forehead creased in a frown and he opened his eyes blearily. He was vaguely aware of the fact that he was lying on hard stone, but everything before him was blurring together. Sam blinked, disorientated.

"Dean?" he mumbled.

_Sssssssssssssssssccchhhhaaaaa…_

_What is that?_

Wincing, Sam sat up slowly and blinked hard, pushing the world around him into focus.

He was… outside.

_What the…?_

Sam looked around, one eyebrow rising in confusion. He was in a garden. On his left, the house rose up cold and grey. He could see the shattered window, still supporting the hole Dean had broken in it. Half of the garden was a patio made up of cool flat stones, which Sam was sitting on. The other half, which was stretching out behind him, was rough, overgrown grass. He could see an uneven circle in the middle of the grass, where the vegetation had been burnt down to dust and ash. _Three guesses what happened there, _Sam thought. The garden was lined by a tall fence, and a small table and two chairs stood on the patio nearby.

Sam ran his hand through his hair, trying to remember how he had got here. He couldn't remember passing out. He remembered Dean hitting the glass with his gun, and then there was loads of light, and then…

_Dean._

Sam scrambled to his feet, panic screaming in his head. Where was Dean? He turned, his eyes scanning the garden, and finally caught sight of Dean lying on his side against the fence. Katie was on the ground near the house, wincing. Sam moved quickly over to Dean and shook his brother's shoulder.

"Dean? Dean, wake up!"

Dean groaned and waved Sam's hand away, as if he had just been woken up in the middle of the night. "Go 'way," he mumbled.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean! C'mon, Dean, get up!"

Dean cracked his eyes open. "Waddaya want?"

"The ghost, Dean? We have to get out of her, remember?"

Dean frowned at him, and then his face cleared. "Right… 'course…" he sat up, rubbing the back of his head. "Aw, that hurts like a bitch…"

Convinced that Dean was now awake, Sam turned and made his way over to Katie. He knelt down beside her and touched her shoulder, slightly more gentle than he had been with Dean.

"Katie? Can you hear me?"

She turned her head and blinked up at him, her bewildered eyes searching his face. Sam realized with a jolt that her whole face was grey.

_How long were we out of it for? _He thought, doing his best not to stare at her.

"What happened?" she croaked.

"I don't know. Come on, you have to get up."

Katie nodded and took his offered hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet. Dean was standing too by now, making faces at the sky.

"What the hell was that?" he asked.

"I don't know," Sam repeated. "At least we're out of the house."

"Is that a good thing?" Katie asked. "I mean, we're still trapped."

"Well, maybe not…" Dean replied, turning towards the fence. He jumped, fingers scrabbling for the top of the fence, but slid back down again. He kicked the fence, but it hardly even shuddered. "Yup," he concluded, scowling as he turned to face them. "We're trapped."

_Sssssssssssssssssccchhhhaaaaa…_

Dean spun around as Sam looked up sharply. The brothers shared a dark look, and Katie looked from one to the other.

"What was that?" she asked hesitantly.

"That," Dean said, "Means that we're being watched."

"The ghost?"

Sam nodded. "Jason must be here."

_Sssssssssssssssssccchhhhaaaaa…_

The sound resembled the wind filtering through trees or tall grass, but had a cold edge to it. And there was no wind here. No birdsong pierced the still air, no clouds whispered across the sky. Everything was motionless. Sam shivered and shoved his hands into his pockets.

Dean was searching through the pockets of his jacket, looking for something. Sam watched him for a few moments, until it became clear that he didn't have whatever he was looking for.

"What's up?"

Dean glanced at him. "I'm trying to find my lighter."

"You didn't have it before, remember?"

"I know, I know!" Dean spat. "Wait, I'm looking!"

Sam couldn't help but grin and turned away. Dean was hilarious when he lost things. As he fisted his hands in his pockets, his fingers brushed against something small and smooth. Sam frowned and pulled it out. Then he lifted it up.

"Uh, Dean?"

Dean looked up irritably, and then caught sight of the lighter in Sam's hand.

"Where the hell did you get that from?"

Sam shrugged, guilt brushing his stomach. "I, uh, had it in our last hunt, remember? And you hurt your hand, so I took it and…"

His voice trailed off. Dean scowled and moved forwards to take it. As he gave Sam a dirty look, an odd expression crossed his face. Sam blinked, confused, but Dean took the lighter and ducked his head before Sam could understand what the look meant.

"Well, we could burn the remains," Dean was saying quickly, nodding at the blackened patch in the grass. "I take it that's where Jason went up in flames, right?"

"Apparently. But hasn't that already been burned?"

Dean lifted his gun. "Ah, but it hasn't been salted, has it?"

Sam nodded. "Okay. Only thing we've got, I guess."

Dean nodded too, but that strange look passed into his eyes again and Sam frowned.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"Dean, what?"

Dean hesitated, glancing at Katie who had moved over to the door and was looking at the hole he had made in the window. Then he looked back to Sam.

"Dean!"

"Okay, okay," Dean muttered. He lifted his gun, turning it so that Sam could see the hilt. Sam stared at it blankly.

"What about it?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Your reflection, Sam!"

Sam caught sight of himself in the gun's smooth metal and reached out to twist the gun so that he could get a better view. His mouth went dry.

The grey tinge to his skin had spread to his face, and was already covering half of it. It was a weird image, as if he was half in shadow and half in the light.

"Oh," Sam whispered, understanding.

"I wasn't gonna say anything…"

"No, its okay." Sam stared down at himself, swallowing hard. How much longer did he have? Katie was already almost finished… at least he would know what was going to happen to him if she was fully covered first. That thought made him shudder.

"Sam?"

"I'm fine. C'mon, let's get on with this."

Dean nodded, clearly relieved, and headed towards the burned patch in the grass. "I guess we could use the rock salt in my gun, right?" he called over his shoulder, trying to sound normal.

"Yeah, sure," Sam muttered.

As if on cue, he was starting to feel tired again. Dean had reached the burned patch and was firing rock salt into the ground. Sam turned, deciding that he could go and sit down for a few minutes until Dean needed him, and found that Katie had crossed to the table too. He took in her bunched, tense back and stopped a few steps away from her.

"Katie?"

She turned to face him, her grey eyes almost empty of all life. "Its here," she whispered.

He opened his mouth to ask what she was talking about, but then she moved aside and he could see the table her body had been blocking beforehand. On it, the photo album rested open. Sam stared at it.

"Dean," he called softly.

He heard Dean's thudding footsteps as his brother walked over to join him. Dean swore softly.

"Sonuvabitch. What does that mean?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know."

Katie moved to the other side of the table and slumped down in one of the chairs, raising a trembling hand to rub her eyes. Sam watched her anxiously. How long did she have left? Twenty minutes? Ten? He swallowed hard. How long did _he _have left?

He watched as Dean moved to kick the second chair out of the way, looking down at the book. He hesitated, and then lowered his hand towards its pages. Panic speared through Sam and his hand snapped out, his fingers closing over Dean's wrist like a vice.

"Don't," he hissed. "Don't touch it."

Dean raised his eyebrows at his brother. "Calm down, Sam. I was just gonna take a look–"

"Then _don't!_" Sam cut across him. "Just don't, Dean."

Dean gently twisted free of Sam's grip. His voice sounded sympathetic as he tried to reason with his brother, a fact that sent a pulse of anger through Sam.

"Sam, its okay. Its not gonna hurt you. I'm just gonna take a look at it. We might be able to get out."

"Don't talk to me as if I'm five," Sam snapped. "Just please don't touch it."

Dean shook his head. "Seriously, Sam, its fine. What's gonna happen if I do, huh?"

Sam hesitated.

"Exactly," Dean replied triumphantly. "I'll be fine, okay?"

Sam sighed, but moved away a little to give Dean some space. Now that he had given in, he wasn't sure why he had reacted so fiercely in the first place. What could happen? They had been dealing with supernatural objects almost all of their lives. They could deal with this too.

Dean nodded, satisfied, and reached out towards the book again. Sam watched as his fingers neared the cover, folding his arms tightly to prevent himself from leaping forwards to stop his brother again.

_Nothing is wrong! _He told himself firmly. _Stop it, now!_

Dean's fingertips brushed over the book's pages cautiously. Nothing happened. Sam let out a small sigh of relief under his breath as Dean looked up at him, an 'I told you so' expression ready on his face.

"See?" Dean said, still with one hand on the book. "Nothing's wro…"

His voice trailed off suddenly, and his eyes went vacant. His mouth hung open slightly, as if waiting for instructions to finish the sentence.

"Dean?" Sam asked, the fear back in moments. "Dean? Stop it, that's not funny."

Dean didn't move.

"Dean!" Sam called, reaching out to shake Dean's shoulder. "Snap out of it, now! No one's laughing. _Dean!_"

Nothing.

_Oh crap…_

"DEAN!"

"_Scared yet?"_

Sam span around to find himself face to decayed, charred face with Jason Hartford. The spirit snickered at Sam's horrified expression and then jerked its head to the side. Sam was yanked off his feet and swung into the wall of the house.

_Damn it, that's happening way too much to me lately, _Sam thought, trying to claw his way up to his knees as he struggled to breathe.

He looked up in time to see the spirit appear beside Dean and place its hand on his brother's face. Dean made a strangled choking sound as greyness began to spread over his skin.

"Get away from him!" Sam yelled, pushing himself up to his feet. "Leave him alone!"

He made a dive for the spirit, but just went straight through it. Jason whipped around to face him, taking his hand off Dean's face, and snarled. Sam watched with relief as the grey tinge to his brother's face retreated quickly, and then let out a scream as pain erupted in his chest. He looked up as the spirit advanced on him, its eyes burning mercilessly.

_Shit, _Sam thought, doing his best to scramble backwards as the ghost came closer, lifting it hand. _I'm in trouble._

SWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDW

Bobby hit the motel door again with his fist, wetting his lips uneasily. Dean had said room 23, hadn't he? He glanced at his watch, and then hit the door again.

"Damn it, Dean, answer the door!" he muttered.

He knew Dean well enough to know that he would answer the door immediately if Sam was in trouble and Bobby could help. So where was he? Bobby made up his mind. He glanced up and down the line of rooms. Once he was certain that there was no one watching him, he pulled out his wallet and retrieved a credit card. He knelt down so that he was level with the lock on the door and slid the card into the crack between the door and the wall. He eased it downwards.

It only took him three tries until the door clicked and swung open, and in that time no one had seen him. He slid his credit card back into his wallet as he stepped inside, his free hand moving to his gun. He looked around the deserted motel room, eyeing the shadows warily.

"Dean?" he called. And then, just in case, "Sam?"

No answer. Bobby took a few cautious steps forwards, closing the door behind him.

He could see the photo album lying on one of the beds, matching it to Dean's description. Its pages were torn and ruffled – apparently someone had shot at it. There were marks in the wall above the book too. Bobby closed his eyes briefly in despair and then made his way over to the book. Taking care not to touch it, he leant forwards and stared into the photos on its open pages.

"Aw, Dean," he muttered. "What did you do?"

SWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDW

Sam couldn't breathe properly. He lay still for a few moments, his eyes squeezed shut, concentrating on getting enough air into his body so that he wouldn't pass out. This time he had landed hard on his right arm, and heard a sharp _crack _accompanied by a searing pain. Now he couldn't move it, and he had his arm pressed tightly against his chest. He could feel his body becoming heavier and heavier, and it was getting harder to keep getting up. He looked up as Jason moved over to stand in front of him.

"_Scared?" _he asked again in his smirking, sing-song voice. _"Round and round the garden… and we all… fall… down!"_

On the last word he lifted Sam again and launched him across the garden and down onto the patio. Sam curled into a ball, gasping for air as his winded lungs struggled to work, aware that he could feel something warm and wet trickling down his forehead. He lifted his head, and his eyes found his motionless brother. Dean was still staring into nothing, still frozen in place.

"Dean," Sam rasped. "Dean, help…"

Dean gave no sign that he had heard him. Sam let his eyes fall closed in despair, tucking his chin into his chest. He heard the roar of a fire as the spirit came closer, calling fire up with him. Without looking, he knew that flames were closing in around him. He could feel their heat as if he were standing next to the sun.

"Dean…" Sam whispered. "Dean, please…"

Nothing. Sam swallowed hard and squeezed eyes shut tighter. His whole body was aching and searing as he moved. He felt as if he had been hit everywhere at least three times. He heard Jason's voice close by him.

"_Scared, kid?"_

7


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: none of it is mine, I just love it!**

**Please review!**

"Shit."

Bobby took of his cap and ran his hand through his hair.

"Shit," he repeated. "Shit, shit, shit."

He pulled out a wooden model carved into a protective symbol and touched it to the album. Nothing happened. Bobby clenched his jaw and threw the model back into his pocket.

He had no idea what to do. He had never had to get anyone _out _before, just destroy the object before anyone else fell victim to it. But, if both boys really were inside now, there was no way he could just kill them. He pressed his lips together and sat down next to the book. Maybe he could try some sort of exorcism? But then, they only worked with Demons…

"Shit, Dean!" Bobby muttered, putting his face in his hands.

He should have known that Dean would have been too impatient to wait for him. And now he would have to find some other way to get them out… he pulled out his mobile and dialled a number.

"Caleb," he said when the other person picked up. "I've got a problem."

SWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDW

Katie lifted her head wearily, blinking slowly. Everything in front of her was blurred and out of focus, but she could just make people out if she squinted. Dean was standing beside her motionless, staring down at the book. Across the garden, Sam was on the ground curled into a ball. Jason was moving in on him, fire rushing up behind him. Katie blinked again. She knew that she should be panicking, at least _doing _something, but she felt so tired… she looked up at Dean.

"Dean?" she croaked.

His eyes didn't even flicker. She frowned slightly, confused. Why wasn't he helping? Sam was in trouble… she tried to remember what had been happening around her before she lost her hold on reality.

The brothers had wanted to 'salt and burn' something. And Dean wanted to look at the book. Well, at least one of those two things had been accomplished. She turned her head. On the other side of the garden was the large burnt circle where Jason had died.

_No, not died…_

She bit her lip. The brothers still didn't know about that part, did they? She shook her head to rid herself of the thought and pushed herself up from the table. She couldn't think about that now: she had to do something. She stumbled a small step closer to Dean and felt in his pocket for the lighter she had seen earlier. She had thought that he would at least respond to someone going through his jacket, but he didn't move.

_Okay, now I'm scared._

She turned away from him, looking over towards Sam. She would have to be fast. She looked back towards the burned patch and began to move over to it. Her progress was painfully slow. Every bone in her body felt as if it weighed a tone, and the world kept slipping in and out of focus.

_I'm taking too long…_

She let herself stagger to a halt, struggling to breathe. She looked up at the burned circle. Had Dean already prepared it? She bit her lip and then lifted the lighter. It took her four tries until the flame jumped up, and even then it almost flickered out again. She raised her head and squinted at her target. Then she threw the lighter as hard as she could.

It landed in the middle of the circle, and the grass around it flared up in moments. Across the garden, Dean let out a sharp gasp of shock and stumbled backwards. At the same time Jason spun around, his dark eyes wide with sudden fear and pain. His mouth opened but for once no sound came out. He vanished and then appeared just in front of her, his form already distorted. Katie gazed up at him.

"I'm so sorry, Jason," she whispered.

Jason just stared at her. Then, in a wobbling, small voice that somehow still managed to hold onto some hate, he replied, "That's what he said."

Then he let out a harsh scream and melted away into nothing. Katie let herself drop to her knees, horribly aware that she couldn't feel her body…

SWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDWSWDW

Dean stumbled backwards and almost tripped over the chair behind him, the icy cold numbness that had been lingering in his chest dissipating in seconds. He shook himself, gasping for a decent lungful of air as his lungs suddenly opened again.

_What the hell…?_

He looked up, blinking hard to clear his vision. Around him, the whole ghost world was shaking wildly, and he could hear glass shattering in the house. He turned his head, noticing Katie on her knees not far away, and then the fire raging just in front of her.

"Katie, get outta the way!" he yelled.

She looked up at him slowly, and his stomach dropped away as he realized that she was completely grey now. Matching the ghost world… swallowing hard, he tore his gaze away from her.

"Sam!" he yelled, searching the garden with his eyes for his brother. "Sam, where are you?"

He caught sight of his brother lying on his side near the fence. Dean's heart jerked and he leapt forwards. He reached him and dropped down on his knees, pulling Sam over onto his back. Sam was grey too…

_No. No, no, no…_

"Sammy?" Dean called, his voice rising in panic. "Sammy, don't do this to me. Sam!"

He shook him in an attempt to wake him, but Sam didn't respond. Dean's head jerked up as a tile from the roof smashed onto the ground beside them. He looked up.

The house was collapsing in on itself. Around them, the garden was shrivelling into blackened shreds of being. Dean glanced behind him for Katie, who hadn't moved.

"Katie, get over here!" he yelled. "Katie!"

Katie just looked at him, her grey lips parted slightly. Dean jerked his head at her, but she still didn't do as he said.

"Katie!" he shouted again. "For god's sake, get over here! Am I the only sane person left in this place?"

As the words left his mouth, the sky went black. Darkness rushed in towards them, Katie vanishing into it. Dean flinched backwards, his arms closing over Sam. He wanted to scream at the darkness to go back, but his voice had deserted him. He clenched a fist in Sam's jacket and turned his face away, closing his eyes, waiting for the end.

The end which never came.

As the darkness hungrily plunged over him, Dean went cold. Then he was falling through it, the wind ripping wildly at him as if it wanted to tear away his skin. Panicking, Dean tightened his grip on Sam and pulled his brother up against him. He wasn't going to let go anytime soon. He just had to keep his eyes shut, keep holding onto Sam, stay calm–

"Dean!"

Dean's eyes flinched open and he looked up, automatically reaching for his gun.

Bobby was staring down at him, reaching out to touch his shoulder. "Dean, you okay?"

Dean nodded dimly, blinking dazedly at Bobby's face. "You… you got us out?"

Bobby shook his head. "I don't know what the hell happened, Dean, you just popped back into the room."

Dean watched as Bobby rose to his feet and turned away. He noticed Katie for the first time, sitting on the other side of the room. She wasn't grey.

_Sam._

Dean looked down, tightening his grip on Sam's jacket. Sam wasn't grey either, but he wasn't awake. Dean shook him slightly.

"Care to explain how you got out?" Bobby asked.

Dean shook his head. "I don't know. I mean…" his voice trailed off and he turned his eyes on Katie, who nodded.

"I burned the place where he died," she whispered.

"But it was a ghost world, there should have been more than that," Bobby replied, looking from one to the other. "That was a goddamn powerful spirit. You can't just light a match and hope it does some good with a thing like that."

Dean raised and lowered one shoulder, lost for words. Katie bit her lip and looked away.

"Katie?" Dean asked, frowning.

Katie glanced at him, swallowing hard. "I… I never told you my second name."

"So?"

"It's… its Katie Hartford."

Dean stared at her for a few moments. Then, "What the _hell?_"

Katie pressed her lips together. "Harry Hartford was my granddad."

"How does that change anything?" Bobby asked, frowning.

Katie kept her eyes on the floor. "Granddad didn't kill himself. My grandmother – Catherine – she told me everything. She said that she came home and he was panicking and trying to call an ambulance, saying that Jason was dying. And Jason was all burned up and bloody. So she told him to sit down and went to get some water and…"

Her voice trailed off, but she didn't need to finish.

"Jason killed him," Dean said. "And then went back out to finish himself, no doubt." He gave a short, bark of a laugh. "Well, that's a vengeful spirit for you."

"By killing him you must have fulfilled the cycle, Katie," Bobby murmured, thinking hard. "He should have died the first time around. And you were his blood relative…"

"Thanks, Katie," Sam croaked. "Uh, Dean… can't breathe…"

Dean jerked back in surprise and then quickly relaxed his death grip on his brother.

"Sorry, Sammy. You okay?"

Sam nodded tiredly. "Yeah," he muttered, touching a hand to his forehead where Dean could see a swelling bruise. "Jesus, today really isn't my day."

Dean grinned. "Well, chicks dig guys who look like they need to be looked after. Just imagine it, huh Sammy? Some hot chick taking care of you…"

"Shut up, Dean," Sam groaned, sitting up and pulling free of Dean's grasp. "And my name is _Sam, _not Sammy."

"Sure, Sammy."

Bobby, lifting his eyes to the heavens in despair, turned to Katie. "You want a lift home?" he asked. "Your parents must be worried."

Katie nodded hesitantly and rose to her feet. She looked over at Sam and Dean.

"Thanks," she said. "I won't forget you."

"We're the ones thanking you," Sam replied, glancing up at her with one hand still pressed to his head. "We'll see you around, 'kay?"

She nodded and then followed Bobby out of the motel room. Bobby stuck his head back in.

"Clean your brother up Dean, he looks like shit."

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam muttered.

"And Dean?" Bobby added, his eyes narrowing. "Next time I tell you to wait… _wait._"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

Bobby scowled. "I'll deal with you later."

"Oooh, I'm scared." Dean watched as Bobby shut the door and listened to the sound of his car moving away. Then he turned to Sam. Bobby was right: he looked like shit. But at least he was back in the colour world again.

"Hey, man," Dean said suddenly, frowning. "Did we just get rescued by a thirteen-year-old girl?"

"I think we did," Sam replied.

Dean blinked. Then he shook his head and stood up to retrieve their first aid kit from their bags. "No one is finding out about this. No one, okay?"

Sam grinned. "Whatever you say, Dean," he muttered. "Whatever you say."

End.

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